


a line has time in it, your heart needs to heal

by amarelavita



Category: Emmerdale
Genre: (well not professionally but), Fluff, Husbands, M/M, artist robert, i'm rubbish at tags okay, post 2018 reunion, sentimental husbands, talk of robert's childhood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 11:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarelavita/pseuds/amarelavita
Summary: "This ‘all yours? You did this?" Aaron said, as Robert caught him lightly turning pages of a sketchbook, the most recent one, the one that contained a lot of himself in it.He soon reached those pages, the first one was of the back of his torso in bed from one of their many hotel escapades, he wouldn’t be able to tell which one, but Robert knew.





	a line has time in it, your heart needs to heal

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! i haven't posted any fic since last year but the lovely soph (@dingletragedy) tagged me to post the last paragraph i'd written, so instead i decided to post this! (logic) i started writing it last summer and it's a bit ooc and i'm poor at writing dialogue (the title is also ambiguous shite) but i hope it's at least enjoyable to read and i love soft aaron and robert!! all the love! x

So Robert liked to do a bit of art in his spare time, there wasn’t anything _wrong_ with that. He just… didn’t want anyone else to know about it.

Sketching and drawing and painting little watercolour landscape pieces in a small A6 sized pad was his escape from the world, not that he needed one so terribly anymore as his life was the best it had ever been. Being back together with Aaron, supporting his family, not having the whole village against him (it was the little things), life was good. Better than it ever had been.

Robert had been fairly decent at drawing his whole life, his skill increasing over the years as he got more practise in. He had a few chunky sketchbooks in with all his stuff, stored away at the bottom of his and Aaron’s wardrobe in one of those woven Ikea-esque baskets. Filled with watercolour and pastel landscapes, soft pencil portraits, and angry biro sketches from his late teens. Experimentation had always been in his blood. He’d always tried to draw from memory, but often ended up relying on a photograph to copy from or refer to, although some things in Robert’s life hadn’t been lucky enough to be captured by camera, so memory it was.

Robert hadn’t ever dreamed of pursuing art, he knew he wasn’t cut out to sit around and draw all day like the talented kids in his classes at school, he always knew he was to excel in business, or something that involved putting his excessive charm to good use. And no way would he dare tell his dad about it either. But he had always come back to art. Turns out that talking to snobby clients all day could really take its toll, the phone clamped between his ear and shoulder so he could freely doodle instead. The therapeutic action of creating light, wispy, pencil strokes were the only thing there to soothe him when his husband wasn’t around for comfort – or when he didn’t want to trouble anyone with his problems.

He thought that maybe he’d got weaker. When he worked for Lawrence he used to get some sort of high from fighting with people on the phone – and always winning their custom, of course. But now it was just draining, he could be bothered - of course he could - but his heart was elsewhere he supposed. There were more important things for him to concentrate on rather than screwing over clients or trying to charm them out of their money. Like starting a family with Aaron and planning their next hotel getaway (to get away from their relatives and work, not his wife like in years past). Chrissie had never known about his talent, well, not this one anyway. Being creative would never have got him anywhere with her, not like playing the powerful businessman did, and that was all that mattered in the grand scheme of things. He had loved her, he truly had; but not like he loves Aaron. Not at all. Nothing could ever compare.

Robert was laid on his side in the middle of his and Aaron’s bed facing towards the window, light streaming in through the wooden venetian blinds, with a sketchbook settled on their duvet in front of him, currently trying to master the proportions of his husband’s face in graphite pencil. He could definitely draw Aaron’s face from memory, how could he not when it was a sight he had permanently etched into his brain, had been there ever since they first met. Aaron was out on a job a few towns away, Seb was with Rebecca for the day, and Liv was at college – coincidentally she was studying Art, a passion he could see the appeal in doing and had subsequently encouraged her to pursue what she knew she was good at.

The sketchbook he was using was rather old now, he hadn’t bought a new one in years, he hadn’t used it during his relationship with Chrissie much, and life got too busy afterwards. It seemed weird, drawing in a book that had travelled with him through various chapters of his life but still happened to mainly consist of daunting blank pages. And despite him owning this sketchbook when he was with Chrissie, it had no reminders of her – or of his life with her - in it. Although few and far between, it instead contained drawings of Aaron tangled up in crisp bedsheets and views from hotel balconies from their nights away, with a few stray car park tickets tucked amongst pages from their secret meetings. It had been a scrapbook of him falling in love with Aaron more than anything. It was a bit lovesick and soppy, he had to admit. He felt like a bloody teenager for god’s sake. Drawings that might have been considered a bit too risqué if to be discovered by his then-wife had previously been ripped out, but had now found their rightful place again.

Nobody knew about Robert’s drawings though, _not even_ Aaron. On the odd occasion that Robert would help Liv to colour something in or sketch a little bit of something when her coursework had been overly demanding due to the fact she’d left it all to the last minute like every other teenager, she and Aaron had been amazed by Robert’s skill.

“I didn’t know you could draw?”

“Yeah, well, I liked art as a kid.”

Was usually how the conversation went.

Robert knew why he didn’t draw in front of people, or for other people. Because the last time he had, it had all gone downhill from there.

The only person who he ever dared to tell about his little fascination had been last person who had ever seen him do so.

His mum.

Robert missed her incredibly and he had this stupid idea that when he drew, he was talking to her in a way, updating her on his life, like she could somehow look through his sketchbooks and understand. It was stupid, he knew that, but he stuck with art because he wanted to keep her in his life.

“You’re so talented Robert, love.” She had said, sticking his poster paint-splashed sugar paper artwork on the door of the kitchen fridge with a magnet they’d got on a seaside holiday the previous year.

“When your work gets put in a gallery you can bet I’ll be the first one in there. Like the proudest mum ever.” She had beamed, tried to predict the future when she had caught him with his mini watercolour set, in the middle of painting the rolling hills behind the Sugden family farm. He’d laughed off the comment, “like that’s ever gonna happen mum!”

“Are you sure you want me in your little book? I won’t ruin it will I?” She had said, almost insecurely, as she sat directly in front of him, Robert sketching her likeness, making her debut in his first ever serious sketchbook. (It was ring bound at the top and the paper was thicker than he was used to.)

Little did he know he was immortalising her in that drawing.

His secret hobby was a link to her, to the person he loved but could not be with. Her presence could never be replaced. He loved Diane, he did, but she wasn’t his mum. No one could ever compare to his mum.

There was a common link there, between his mum and Aaron. They were both irreplaceable, and incomparable to everyone else. Both loving him unconditionally, understanding him. He supposed he’d taken them both for granted more than once.

It had happened when Aaron was clearing out the bottom of their wardrobe, making more room for bits they’d been given at Christmas, most likely stuff that wouldn’t see the light of day again until it was shipped off to the local charity shop in a dustbin liner in a few years’ time.

“What’s all this then?” Aaron had called from the floor of their bedroom, yanking out the woven basket.

“It’s all from years ago, don’t bother.” Robert said, barging into the room from their en-suite, damp hair dripping down onto his white t-shirt, knowing what Aaron was ultimately about to delve into.

“This ‘all yours? You did this?” Aaron said, as Robert caught him lightly turning pages of a sketchbook, the most recent one, the one that contained a lot of himself in it. He soon reached those pages, the first one was of the back of his torso in bed from one of their many hotel escapades, he wouldn’t be able to tell which one, but Robert knew. The second a tiny soft sketch of him asleep next to Robert, face smushed into a pillow.

Robert awkwardly scratched the back of his neck and moved to sit next to Aaron on the floor, resting their backs against the end of their bed, surrounded by the crap that had found a home inside their wardrobe ever since they had moved in.

“Yeah it’s all mine, copyrighted, the lot.” Robert tried to joke. He didn’t know how to respond. Yeah, he’d kept all these memories in a such a sentimental almost-geeky way and just hadn’t made it public knowledge, he wasn’t the next ‘Artist of the Year’ but didn’t look like a ten year old had done them either.

“They’re amazing Rob,” Aaron said, flicking through yet more pages, “why have you kept it a secret?”

“Didn’t think it was anything special to be honest, wasn’t planning in becoming an artist so what was the point?” Robert replied.

“You can be such an idiot you know that? You’ve got a real talent, I wish I’d seen these ages ago, and how fit you clearly thought I was back then, I mean look at that one.” Aaron said, as he pointed to a new drawing on a page nearing the end of the book amongst a sea of blank pages. It was of Aaron, of course it was, naked, cut off at the waist as it filled the page and him smiling, as if Robert was above him. He’d obviously drawn this one from memory, or imagination, lord knows Robert had an inventive one. He’d even gone back at it with a dash or two of pastel toned watercolour at a later date, probably when he and Aaron were separated and these were his only memories, and it’d only made Aaron look impossibly fitter. The ‘Aaron in sordid positions in hotel rooms’ series could be placed in some sort of gallery, or maybe their bedroom, which was probably more appropriate.

Robert was bashful with the praise, in another life he’d bask in it and use it to feed his ego, but now he was living this life where he didn’t have to constantly act or pretend, he didn’t know how to handle it too well - especially when it came from his husband.

Now he was laid here, gazing over his sketchbook lost in such a trance that he failed to notice Aaron enter their room until a rectangular shaped box wrapped in brown paper crashed down onto the bed beside him.

“Jesus Christ, what’d you do that for?” Robert exclaimed, hand over his heart, ever the dramatic.

“Shut up, it’s for you anyway” Aaron said, nodding his head in the direction of the package.

Robert just stared at it next to him, the man he was trying to draw had just interrupted him and for once he didn’t feel the need to hide what he was doing or quickly shove the sketchbook off the bed and crumple all of its pages in the process.

“Well it’s not gonna bite ya! Open it Robert!” Aaron laughed.

He rolled over and sat up on their bed and started ripping off sections of the brown paper, not the most fashionable choice of wrapping, but how could he care for that when he saw what was underneath.

A painting of his. Framed. One he’d done decades ago, probably as a teenager. Two hands holding each other, fingers intertwined. God it was lovesick wasn’t it? He’d been lonely and desperate for genuine affection that he wasn’t receiving anywhere else. Only now it had another meaning, it symbolised him and Aaron. It even somehow managed to resemble them.

“I can’t believe you’ve done this.” Robert said as he touched the dark black frame surrounding his aged watercolour painting.

“I mean I can take it back if you don’t like it, God, I knew this would be too much I’m so-“

“No, Aaron, it’s perfect. Thank you. Really.”

A wash of relief and a slightly smug smile of contentment drew over Aaron’s face as he sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Come here you.” Robert said, as he reached across for his husband to draw him in for a kiss. He couldn’t lie, he was a little bit emotional with it all.

The painting was eventually hung up in their hallway upstairs, right next to their bedroom door, Liv called it soppy but well painted for Robert’s standards, and quietly thought it was sweet whenever she caught a glance of it.

But most of all it made Robert strangely proud of himself, a feeling he rarely genuinely felt about himself. Of how far he’d come since painting it in the first place, and how happy he was in himself now.

He hoped that possibly, just maybe, his mum might be looking down on him.

And she might be proud of him too.


End file.
